


Without All Remedy

by ilup



Series: Debts and Bonds [2]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Death, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Slavery, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilup/pseuds/ilup
Summary: The courier and Boone lay waste to the Fort and find a group of slaves. Present actions dig up past memories.





	Without All Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to "Let It Be Me" but can be read standalone, too.

Blood seeped between the courier’s fingers, forced out by the pressure. The tips of her fingers grew numb while her palm grew hot. Couldn’t cover the whole cut, split open like a mudcrack. Wetness spread over her stomach like water. It hadn’t hurt at first—legionaries carry sharp blades—then it burned.

The last Stimpak had been used up in the fray of battle. She was lucky this was the only wound she’d sustained since. The blade sliced through her tattered armor and withdrew before the muscle. A good sign. No intestinal rupture. Her eyes fell shut, and she eased onto the cool ground, drawing her knees up.

Her heart thumped like a drum with lagging tempo. Caesar's head bled out feet away from her own. There were at least a dozen other bodies behind her, blood sinking down and seeping out. She felt twice as heavy. Her head lolled to the side against her shoulder, then was caught and set even again.

Her armor came off, then her shirt peeled away easy. Wet cloth shocked her feverish skin in quick icy dabs. A thick bandage looped over and under her abdomen in slow motion.

The remnants of her shirt rolled back over the dressing, and the wound warmed underneath. Her sleeve rolled up.

“Not now,” she whispered.

The needle paused, then plunged deeper, digging for a vein.  It would’ve hurt more later, so it’ve been better to save. The heat and pain mellowed into contentment. The drowsiness had her wanting to sink into the ground. A lazy smile crept up her cheeks.

“Caesar’s dead,” the courier said. “Caesar’s _dead_.” Her tone might’ve sounded satisfied, but in her mind it was delirium-fueled disbelief.

She opened her eyes a crack. Boone hovered over her possibly carrying a slight grin, a rare treat. A hand appeared, her own, and he took it. Her body elevated like a lever. Finding footing, she stumbled, squeezing her eyes tight as blood circuited her body and fuzzed up her head. She pawed at Boone’s shoulder and grabbed a strap on his ruck. His shoulders bobbed up and down with a springy energy.

“They'll catch wind of what we've done soon enough.” He used every breath to get the words out. He looked past her shoulder, toward the tent flap as if expecting another cohort of praetorians. “If we stay, we fight. Are you up for it?”

She cupped a hand over Boone’s ear. Legion were sophisticated enough to have bugged the room.

“Hide. Let’s hide. Not here,” she said.  

“Agreed.”

They left the massacre behind them.

Boone never let his eyes stray from a fixed point in the distance, yet he never tripped over any stray limbs or pieces of armor. The courier’s eyes darted around the landscape, freckled with bodies. If none were small or short, it wasn't true.

Something had taken control of her mind starting when they stood on the hill overlooking Cottonwood Cove that made her detonate the charges, fire at anything still standing, and dodge every electrified punch. It was starting to slip away. Her muscles ached. Med-X metabolized quick in her system.

Even if wasn’t _her_ , it’d been _her_ bullet _,_ fired from _her_ gun that’d found its way into the chest of a legionary boy soldier. Not a wobble. Couldn’t even call it collateral damage like she could with the dogs. He looked the same as any legionary with all the armor. Boy-sized armor. He carried a wooden sword.

She didn’t think Boone saw. She hoped he didn’t see.

One body had a young face, an adolescent. Out of the armor, he would’ve been a kid to her. By that age, the courier surmised, she wasn’t much of a kid herself.

He would’ve died no matter what.

The courier clutched Boone’s arm for support and found sweat stickifying the dried blood on her hand. It was sloughing off and dyeing his blond hairs brown, but her hands never got any cleaner. She let her foot fall as his did. His weight eased more gently on one leg than the other, and it stepped half as far. Under his armor, a bandage covered his side, soaked through. Her cut pounded, and she would’ve begged for another hit of Med-X, except Boone probably needed it more.

Flames whipped on bits of brush and cloth. She prayed the nighttime winds were gentle. Didn’t want to be roast gecko by morning.

Boone slowed, surveying an array of identical tents. He shook off the courier’s grasp, drawing his elbow inward. Her knees buckled, then she caught herself on a splintery post, using the thing to relearn how to stand. He put a finger to his lips, replaced it on the trigger, and weaved through the array toward a tent in the corner.

He parted the tent flap with the barrel of his rifle. Fingers pulsed against her own gun. She held her breath.

He paused, withdrew the barrel, pulled aside the tent flap, and looked at the courier. She peered inside: darkness and the reflection of a few wet eyes. She flicked on her Pip-Boy light.

Slaves. A woman, around her age, edged backward in the tent. She squeezed the children in her arms tighter: a young girl and a toddler boy. They were all dark-skinned with cropped black hair. The little boy suckled on the girl’s finger. Her other hand covered the boy’s eyes. A family.

The courier wished Boone hadn’t led them to the tent at all. She swallowed down and cut that thought out of her mind. Like a gravitational pull, she couldn’t let this go. She was good at this kind of stuff, Boone once said. She wasn’t so sure about that. He stood there holding the tent flap open. He’d sit outside, warn if anything strange happened. There wasn’t enough room for both of them.

The courier raised both hands in front of her, palms out. She eased down to a squat then lowered to her knees and shuffled inside, staring past the woman’s shoulder. With her back straight to avoid placing weight on the wound, her head touched the peak.

The mother’s eyes trailed down the courier’s form making stops at her rifle, bloody hands, wrapped stomach. She mouthed words to herself.

Something slid over the courier’s shoulder—a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes.

She opened the box and dug out a two-pack, strained over, and held out the packet. The mother didn’t take it, but the girl had a longing look.   

Stomach pangs. Might’ve been the cut, but it gave the courier a thought. She ripped open the packet and bit into a cake. It had the taste and texture of an old book. She hoped it wasn’t going to add on to her pain later. She held out the other cake.

“ _Bonum,”_ she said.

They stared.

“It’s good. Try it.” She shifted into a more relaxed position and wished there were a hard wall to lean against.

The girl gazed up at her mother.

“Mel,” the mother said. The girl’s name was Mel.

They exchanged quiet words. The mother loosened her hold on Mel, who plucked her finger from the boy. His mouth hung open. Not a tear on his face. Legion broke them early. The courier’s hand dangled in the air, then dropped. Mel had snagged the snack cake and settled back in her mother’s arms.

A faint smile came over Mel’s face, and it didn’t matter she was staining the cake dirty with mud. She broke off a piece of cake and tucked it in the boy’s cheek.

“Mel is a lovely name. You have a beautiful daughter.” She hadn’t realized she was audible.

“Oh. She’s not mine.” The woman twitched but kept her arms around the children. Her voice was soft and deep as if strained for a long time. “Neither is the boy, Quintus.”

Her skin flushed warm. The little boy had a Roman name, and the courier found herself avoiding his beady stare. The group had seemed everything like a family. She cursed herself and dug around in the box hurrying to rip open another packet.

“Would you like one?”

The woman gently shook her head. Hollow cheeks made Mel look older despite the way she licked each finger free of crumbs and eyeballed the cake in the courier’s hands. She’d get sick if she had another. Sweat rose up. She’d been on high gear too long. The cake was getting sticky. Blood was rubbing off onto the thing, and she shoved it back into the wrapper. She rubbed her palms against each other.

“Ah—your name?” the courier asked.

“Siri,” the woman said.

“Siri, how long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Siri shook her head.

“That’s okay. Do you need water?”

She kept shaking her head.

“I have enough,” she said. “Why are you here?”

The courier didn’t see supplies of any sort but accepted her word.

“Well, it was fate, maybe. But that’s not important—”

“Fate? Will you kill us?”

The courier’s eyes widened. She should’ve left her damned rifle with Boone. “No, no, no—we’re going to get you and the children out of here. We’ll get you across the river, to people that can help. There’s this group called the Followers, and they’ve got medicine, aid, beds, you name it—”

“Is this a mockery?”

“What? I promise, if you just follow us—”

“How could you be so cruel? To offer me freedom, when that’s impossible? You are a free woman. You can’t understand. I am a slave. I’ve seen what happens to slaves who try to cross that river. One tried escaping not long ago. She came back a broken woman.”

“Is she still here?”

“I don’t know what has happened or where anyone is. Why are you doing this? Please, just go. Leave us alone.”

“As far as I know, anyone wearing red out there is dead.”

Siri gaped at the courier. Not a sound from the children.

“Is that true?” Siri said.

A nod.

“Caesar?”

A nod.

“That’s—” Siri was at a loss for words. “No, I can still hear the gunfire.”

Fire crackled in the quiet and a shot of fear went down the courier’s chest. Nothing from Boone. It was nothing. There was nothing like gunfire outside the tent.

The courier breathed slow. Crusted blood and dirt balled up in her hands, and she wiped the grime off on her pants. She clasped her hands to stop them from shaking. The tent fell silent.

A minute passed.

Then another.

 

“Can you still hear it?”

 

Siri’s eyes were closed. They waxed in and out of discomfort. “Is it gone?”

“It’s gone.”

For extra confirmation, the courier moved to open the tent flap a crack, enough to reveal flickering fires and at least one fallen legionary. Siri craned her neck forward over the children’s heads. She settled back after a moment.

“How?” she asked.

The question hung. The blasts had taken chunks of earth and legionaries out with them. Not to kid herself, it’d been more than just legionaries. It was all impersonal, she thought. In the moment, their goal had been to deal as much damage as quickly as possible. It’d worked.

Siri and the kids had been lucky. The courier’s body went hollow. She tried making a fist and found her fingers paralyzed. She strained in getting them to finally close.

“In some respect, then, we are free,” Siri said.

The courier gave a encouraging nod.

“But I can’t go. We can’t leave with you. To leave with you would be to raise your bounty. You must be something of a magnet for trouble.”

Siri was right. The courier couldn't make it two steps without someone on her scent. Only a matter of time before the Legion sent more forces up from the heartland.

“Can you promise me you’ll find some kind of way out of here?” the courier said.

Siri frowned.

“What’s the problem?”

“I can share with you the story of the slave that attempted escape.”

“Tell me.”

Siri sighed, then spoke.

“It happened about a month ago. We both worked as healers. She dug under the barricade during the night—she was a small woman—and fled down the hillside. She made it down to the shore and began swimming. But they had already caught her. They simply let her think she was undiscovered. The dogs, they went after her and drug her back across. They made sure to keep her head underwater. She returned alive. I was tasked with healing her. A month later, she still had not regained her faculties. She worked with the children from then on.”

Quintus sucked his thumb. If he were a few years older, he might’ve been out on the field.

“We all think about it,” Siri said. “That if we just got across, they would never find us. But that is a worthless thought. More than a few of my peers originate from the other side. Fugitives fetch a hefty bounty. And punishment.”

“But you aren’t a slave anymore,” the courier said weakly.

“Only you think so.”

Liberty lived in open plains, desert dunes, and red cliffs. Nothing freer than the ocean far west. The courier discovered freedom and couldn’t turn back. Siri didn’t feel the same. Her masters were dead, but if there was no will, there was no way. If Siri were to be a free woman, if only in the courier’s eyes, she had the right to make that choice. She was as close to a mother as the children could hope for. The courier wasn’t that. Maybe they’d be rewarded for loyalty by the Legion if they stayed slaves. Maybe they’d find freedom some other way. _Maybe_ was all the courier could hope for.

“Okay.” _Okay_. The word tasted worse than a snack cake. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

The courier scooted backward and twisted around to exit. She grimaced.

“Your injury.”

She turned back. Siri held something out: two plump burlap pouches cinched closed with twine.

“It’s healing powder. Two portions xander root to one portion broc flower.”

The courier received the pouches in surprise. “Huh. I usually use one portion of xander root.”

Siri tilted her head. “And it’s effective?”

A draft slinked into the tent.

“Used it all the time when I couldn’t find a Stimpak.”

Siri smiled gently. The courier forced one in return. She backed out of the tent. On the ground where she’d been sitting, she noticed a ragged teddy bear and a tiny green dinosaur.

—

They sought shelter in another tent. Boone had her turn off the Pip-Boy light. Said he wasn’t wanting her to become target practice for a stray legionary. Said he’d keep watch outside. If the courier didn’t fix his wound now, she’d never get another chance. She’d never seen anyone throw more of a fit over getting an injection, even if it’d save his life.

“It’ll be more than a night for Legion to ready their men and get over here. Might even take a few days. Now that side injury? That’s got a few hours. I’d hate to see it go septic, so get yourself _in here_.”

Speaking harshly didn’t come naturally, but it got Boone inside the tent and his back against the ground.

She fumbled off the fastenings on his torso armor, shucked it away, rolled up his undershirt, and undid the bandage. It came off with resistance. She ran a finger around his side wound and found mottled flesh and congealed, jelly-like matter. It’d look a nightmare in the light. He groaned. She removed her hand and patted each pant pocket. She drew out a sachet of what she hoped was healing powder and confirmed it was by the odor of sour broc petals and musty root.

Lines of raised flesh spanned her palm. She drew a line to where his wound began and kept a finger there. She tapped out a dose of powder, hoping it fell onto the wound. The area felt drier. Cupping a dose, she patted it against the wound, applying more until a smooth layer sealed it up like mortar. Though healing powder worked slower than Stimpaks, the scar would be fainter. She applied a cloth patch to protect her work.

“Med-X?”

“Don’t need it.”

“You sure?”

He grunted.

She doubted her ability to keep the needle steady anyways and tossed away the spent sachet. She’d fix herself in the morning. Her head met the dirt. Boone had made room for her by lying on the side of his wound.

“Roll over.”

“No room.”

“There’s plenty of room. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Can’t feel a thing. Healing powder’s good.”

“Better than mine?”

“Ha. Yeah.”

Maybe there was more than just healing powder in that sachet. She reached out, measuring the distance between them until her fingers met his back. He tensed under her touch, then relaxed.

“Hope I didn’t tell her wrong.”

“What wrong?”

“Everything. Did you listen? How much could you hear?” She laid her palm flat against Boone’s back.

“Heard more reasons why the Legion ought to be wiped off the map.”

“I fucked up. I fucked up bad.”

Sergeant Astor needed a favor, and it snowballed. It started on the hill above Cottonwood Cove. She’d led them there.

“You think we made a mistake?” Boone said.

“Just thinking I should’ve pulled more weight.”

“Done fine.”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“Legion’s wasted, and you say we haven’t done shit?”

The courier winced. In a soldier’s mind, there was no difference between them two. An insult to her was an insult to him. Boone wasn’t a soldier anymore, though.

Boone sighed. “Damn it. Done fine. Let’s do more.”

“Right.” She swallowed. “Come morning, we heading out or staying?”

“Staying.” No hesitation.

“What if there’s nothing?”

No response.

“I vote we get going,” she said.

V-O-T-E.

She traced the letters in slow drags spanning his back. Her fingers hiccuped on folds of fabric and muscles. Unoccupied hands were shaky hands. Something of a nervous tic, she reckoned.

“Why’s that?”

“You know I get antsy staying in one place too long.” She drew figure-eights on his back, trading long, straight swipes for curving arcs. A shiver ran under her finger. She stopped, then continued looping around. “Ought to be more careful. I’m a _magnet for trouble_.”

M-A-G. N-E-T.

“I didn’t sign up for _careful_.”

C-A-R-E…

She swiped a hair, or a bug, from her face. She replaced her hand under his shoulder blade, letting her fingers conform to the muscle.

“I had to leave everything behind because I wasn’t.” A chill ran through her, and her chest tightened. She moved in closer behind him. Even if he wanted to roll over, he couldn’t. It was selfish, and it made her feel better.

“I had a patient—the mistress of some bigshot in New Reno. They’d come out to my town on some trip, a vacation. Maybe they were running from his crazy wife.” The courier gave an empty laugh. “She was pregnant and getting to term. I was the only doctor around that could do anything. It would’ve been my first delivery.”

Every word coming out of her mouth felt like steam releasing from a kettle. She could practically hear the whistle.

“It was a breech baby. Had to cut her open. Cut too deep.” She trailed off. She smelled blood.

“Then you left?”

Boone was awake. He’d been unearthly quiet. If it weren’t for his warmth, she would’ve thought he’d up and vanished. She touched her forehead to his back. He smelled like sweat and sulfur. She buried her nose in his shirt and drew circles with her thumb. Slow movements calmed her.

“No. I stuck around. I started using a lot more Steady. But after a few months, I got word the mob was out looking for someone by my name. Then I left.

“If they had still been in the city or if it weren’t me, it might’ve been fine. I wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t do anything at all. She was addicted to Jet, too. Up in New Reno, you can smell Jet in the air. Maybe that baby just wasn’t meant to be.”

Boone knew the pain of losing a child he'd never known. Guilt mounted in her throat, and she wanted to sprint a mile to take the edge off the ache in her legs. She brought them up to assume the fetal position. “You didn't want to hear all that. I talk too much.”

“Talking’s fine.” Boone shifted, drawing his body away from hers. “I never know what to say.”

“Can’t sleep?” She filled in the space between them. Arizona nights ran cold. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. I gotta piss.” He bucked away from her again and started rising. She put a hand on his arm.

“Hold on. What is it?”

He settled and didn’t move anymore. Words came easy to the courier, too easy, but words weren’t coming to him. She regretted getting irked with him. Nobody had ever given him any time, not even her.

“I—I think talking helped a little. For me.” The courier pressed a soft smile against his back. “Whatever it is, talking might help, too.”

Boone inhaled, then exhaled, carrying a tremble with it. He did that a few more times. Each time the courier felt it under her cheek and palm.

“You heard of the Bitter Springs refugee camp?” he said.

Bitter Springs. For years, the story had made its rounds through the Mojave. She'd known couriers that had carried things up that way, but she hadn't circled near it. Especially not since meeting Boone. She bit her lip and waited for him to elaborate.

He didn’t say another word.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of it,” she said.

She had picked up bits and pieces of what’d happened from those far removed from the incident. Reported casualties ranged from dozens to hundreds. By one wastelander’s opinion, the Khans were raiders, and by another’s, the victims were women and children. Corporal Betsy had refused to speak of it in detail.

“If you know,” said Boone, “then you know.”

 _Believe the worst and maybe you’ll come close,_ Betsy had said. Palm in hand, she swore to. Boone, however, had his own story burning in his mind.

“Whatever happened—it’s over now. It’s in the past,” she soothed. “Talking helps.”

The words returned to her lips as warmth. While time marched onward, sometimes she’d stand still and sink in. Moving on was like slogging through sand waist-deep. Memories dragged along on a tarp. One day, they had to be buried, but not forgotten.

“Maybe some other day.”

She expected as much. His breathing evened out.

“Whenever you’re ready.” The courier crossed an arm over his body, drawing him and herself close.

“ _Fuck—_ ”

“Shit, did I hurt you?” She let go, tucking her hand in her pocket and scooting to the end of the tent.

“No. Don’t surprise me like that.” He was breathless. “ _Damn it_.”

“Shh.”

Footsteps. They were light, barefooted, moving swiftly. She got a vision of a slave child wandering, looking for his mother. It was more likely a stray dog, but the steps were too focused in movement. The steps got louder, paused, then disappeared. The courier dared not speak.

Gingerly, she stretched a finger out to Boone's back.

G-O-O-D. N-I-G-H-T.

She wrote the letters from shoulder to shoulder and tugged at his shirt. He rolled onto his back beside her. In silence, she felt secure.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
